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IT WAS 7:30AM AND BLOODY cold. Randy rapped again on Piho’s back door, a bit louder this time. “Who’s there?” called a voice within.
“Me, Randy Cathro, I’m here to take Blowfly for a walk.”
The door opened. It was Mrs Waitere, in her dressing gown. “Come in,” she said, “Piho isn’t up yet. You know his room.” Randy went on through.
Piho was still in bed. “You’d better get a wriggle on,” he told Randy straight off, “Here’s the lead. Oh, by the way...” he checked that the door was closed, and dropped his voice, “Pierre sold the goods. We got six hundred ...”
“Excellent!”
“...between us.”
“What!”
“Sold ‘em for fourteen hundred gross, but reckons he spent a real whack on expenses.” Piho told Randy about the ‘lunch’.
“What!” roared Randy, “Seven hundred bucks on lunch? That’s disgusting!”
“Shhhh!” warned Piho, glancing at the door as if it had ears, “Pierre said it was a once-er. He reckons the profit will be higher next time.”
“Oh, yeah, for him!” snarled Randy bitterly.
“Well it was your idea,” huffed Piho, “getting involved with that guy.”
“Was not!”
“Was bloody so! You dragged me out to that cooking class!”
“But you made the deal, without even asking me!”
“Well you weren’t there ‘cos you couldn’t face your girlfriend, and...!”
Then a voice came from another part of the house, “Piho! Will you keep it down!”
#
AFTER PIHO HAD COUNTED out Randy’s share of the money, and Randy had carefully double-checked it, there was hardly enough time to get to the reserve and back before school time. But he set off anyway, on his bike to make up the time, with Blowfly running ahead (and left, and right) on the lead. He only fell off twice.
At the reserve all was silent, cold and damp. Blowfly snuffled around for ages, peed on a few trees, and generally had a doggy-good time. Randy pounded along behind, calling, “That’s it! Good boy! Go find them!”
Blowfly stopped, sniffing the ground. Randy ran up, excited, but it was just a dead bird.
At a quarter to nine he jacked it in and hurried back to town. Piho’s mother came out just when he was chaining up the dog. “Thanks, Randy. It’s nice to see you boys getting so much out of that useless mutt. It’ll be a shame when he goes back.”
“That won’t be for ages though, will it?” replied Randy confidently.
“Sunday,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Arrrrgh!” yelled Randy.
“What?”
“Arrrrr-huh,” he repeated, trying to calm down. “Uh, er, why exactly Sunday?”
“Uncle’s out of hospital that day. Says he wants the dog home when he gets there.”
“Surely he meant one of the other ones?”
“Nope. He means this one.”
“The one that shot him in the hip?”
“Ah.., it’s his dog, Randy. I guess he has a right to ask for it back.”
“Yeah. Right. The useless pig-dog. He wants it back. What for?”
She looked away right then, like there was something she didn’t want to tell him. “Shouldn’t you be off to school?” she answered instead, “It’s nearly nine.”
#
RANDY FOUND PIHO AS soon as he could. He was totally freaking out. “He’s gonna shoot him! I just know it! We can’t let it happen!”
“Chill out, dude,” soothed Piho, “We’ll just have to bring up Plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“We buy the dog.”
“Yeah? What with?”
“What with? Where were you this morning? That’s that lump in your pocket?”
“Shhhh! Okay, okay. But geez, man! Just when we’re starting to get somewhere...”
“It won’t be so bad. He’s a lousy pig-dog anyway. Should only cost us a hundred, maybe less. I’ll check it out sometime.”
“Sometime? We’ve only got two days!”
“Then I’ll check it out tonight.”
“Okay. Ring me later, about ten. I’ve got a meeting tonight.”
“Meeting?”
“ARF.”
“Arf to you too. Waddya mean ‘arf’?”
“A-R-F. Animal Rights Federation.”
“Oh geez! You turned into a Greenie or something?”
“It’s just a strategy thing. You’ll thank me for it when you’re a millionaire.”
Piho just snorted.
#
IT WAS 7:30, DARK, and raining slightly. Randy scurried to the meeting at the address he’d been given. It was a rough-looking older style house in the rough-looking older part of town. He knocked. The door was slightly open.
“Come in!” called a voice.
He went in. There were big posters on the wall about genetic engineering, native forest logging, and animal vivisection (whatever that was). The place smelt bad.
Everyone was gathered in a brightly lit room full of old mis-matched furniture, piles of books, and more posters. A skimpy fire burned in the fireplace. Randy glanced around, wondering why the place was so bright.
There was a film-maker’s floodlight in one corner. Huh?
“Here he is!” declared Pierced-Nose the moment Randy arrived, “Our man of the moment!” He waved around a hand, ‘I think you know everyone. Oh, and my name’s Ponga by the way – as in the Tree Fern.”
Randy shuffled nervously, glancing around at the assembled faces. Aside from Ponga there was Myra and her silent boy-friend Justin, Tammy, and a video camera pointing straight at Randy’s face.
“Beau?”
“I don’t exist,” she replied tersely, “I am just the Dispassionate Camera.”
“No you’re not, you’re my sister...”
“I AM THE DISPASSIONATE CAMERA!!” she repeated angrily, “Now shut up and get on with your meeting!”
Myra gestured soothingly to Randy, “Ms Cathro is making a documentary, recording our activities without censorship or judgment. She will show the world our righteous anger, and our righteous action! It will be totally unbiased! Now...” she looked around, paused dramatically, and indicated Randy, “...this inspired young activist here has seen the misery of our animal friends and he says it must stop! What do we say?”
“No more abuse! Free the pigs!” shouted Ponga and Tammy together.
“That’s right!” said Myra, “It’s time to take action! To break the law if we have to! This vile practice cannot be tolerated in Kainui for even one more day!”
“Ah, yeah!” murmured Randy cautiously.
“Justin,” asked Myra, “what information did you get on the pig farm?”
Justin, rummaged in his briefcase and took out some pages. “Um, the place is, ahh, ... it was recently sold, by...” he fumbled out a notebook and flipped through it chaotically, “...by a guy called Davis Gofford, who was declared bankrupt only a few days later. Now you’ve gotta agree - that’s suspicious...”
“That’s the karma of an animal murderer!” spluttered Myra.
“...Oh! And I found this:” Justin passed around a photocopy of a magazine cover.
RURAL INNOVATOR
LEADERS IN FARMING PRACTICE
April Issue
Methane Now Means Total Pig Utilisation
Waikato Farmer Leads the Way
The cover showed a picture of a smiling guy in a nice suit standing in front of a mess of shiny new pipes and a big tank. Randy had seen that background before. It was the space-age-looking techno-thingy at the pig farm.
“That’s Gofford,” said Justin, pointing to the guy in the suit, “The article is sick, how it talks about those pigs! I mean ‘Pig Utilisation’. Doesn’t that just make you shudder?”
“Yeah, right, whatever,” interrupted Randy, “so he’s the guy who’s sold out. So who’re we dealing with now?”
“Some guy called...” Justin flipped through his messy notes again, “...Barry Boyd.”
“Arrrrrrrrgh!” yelled Randy loudly.